


Mr. Implacable

by orphan_account



Category: due South
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Flogging, Gags, Object Insertion, Other, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 16:13:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone has a bad day making bad decisions.  Fraser agrees to take all the decisions away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. Implacable

I’d seen him around. He even had a nickname: Mr. Implacable. Because whatever he was doing, he was always in charge and always pretty hard to read. He’d listen to what people asked him for, think about it, then either give it to them (pretty well, by reputation) or politely turn them away. And he wasn’t lacking for offers: he was Golden Age Hollywood handsome. Caucasian pretty boy, taller than average, muscular, dark hair, blue eyes and a dispassionate look that implied he had a cold, cold heart, even if only when it came to this.

I was having a pretty bad day: so many mortgage applications that, in a sane industry, would’ve been denied but that the rules said I had to rubber stamp. Inflated prices, deflated wages, and the bank wanted the paper on all of them. When I made the grade as a loan officer, I would’ve been surprised that I’d wind up feeling bad about making people’s dreams come true. But it was pretty clear that their choices, my bank’s choices, weren’t going to end well for most of the crop I’d had that day.

So that’s why, that night, I went up to Mr. Implacable and said, “I like being hurt. I like being fucked in any hole that’s big enough. I don’t like making decisions.” He waited in case there was more, and I’m the kind of person who always wants to give more. “So take away my choices,” I said. Then kind of had to undercut my request by giving him my safeword, but rules are rules.

He thought about what I said and, after my own little eternity of waiting, nodded. “I’ll take you,” he agreed. “And you’ll have no choice,” he said formally, coldly. “You can always use your safeword, and this stops. I won’t think less of you, I will take care of you, but the sexual aspects of the encounter end.”

“Agreed,” I said. Then I added “sir,” just in case. He just glared at me.

“We haven’t started yet,” he said. “Once we have, I don’t require honorifics. If you can’t stop yourself from using them, I won’t punish you for it, nor for anything else you might say unless it’s an attempt to tell me what you want or do not want. Because you have no choices, now.”

I didn’t say anything at all. “Well done,” he said. “Now, let’s get down to it.”

In terms of what we did, it wasn’t all that unusual. He had me suck him for a while, which was good, I like doing that, he had a nice cock, good size without being unusual, nice shape. Very clean, some kind of inexpensive but effective soap, plus a scent and taste I couldn’t place but which was definitely pleasant.

I was a little worried that he started with that. After all, when you’re blowing someone, you have choices you have to make. Pressure, speed, depth, how much spit, how much teeth (if any), suction, tongue….

But he quickly modified my style to suit his needs. He immediately put his hands on my head, which dictated some of it right off the bat. He told me what he wanted on the other stuff, his demands curt. “Not so much tongue,” he said. He didn’t sound disappointed or impatient, just matter-of-fact. Just him telling me what he wanted, in increasing detail until he got it.

What he wanted was to fuck my face. He wanted me to be a vessel, and it didn’t take more than a half-dozen pieces of specific instruction until I figured that out and just held on for the ride. It was what I wanted, too, after all. Vessels don't have choices.

He pulled me off before he was done. I stayed in the same position, kneeling before him, waiting for further instructions, half wondering if he’d just beat off until he came on my face and then call it a night.

“I’m going to flog you now,” he said. Again, a statement. I didn’t move, instead waiting for him to position me. He pulled me across a padded ottoman, face down, tying my wrists and ankles securely to its legs. I couldn’t move; one more choice taken away.

He put a length of lightweight aluminum chain in my mouth; it had a bell on the end. Pretty standard equipment for a gagged person to call a halt if necessary. “Drop it if you want me to stop,” he said. So, yeah, I still had a choice to call it all off, but using the chain as a gag took away my words, any temptation to ask for more, to ask for it harder, to protest however insincerely. Then he began striking by upper back, ass and thighs. Didn’t show me the flogger the first, the way some tops would, trying to intimidate or reassure. But not him, of course. That would have been implying choice, the choice I didn’t want to have to make.

I didn’t come from the pain like I sometimes do, but I certainly enjoyed it. It was a nice flogger, maybe suede, nothing too challenging for pain although he had a strong arm. I didn’t even consider letting the chain drop; it felt good, I felt good, it was all good. He worked me over for some time, then stopped before I was really ready for him to. But that was his choice.

I heard the sound of a condom being unwrapped. He ran his fingers over the chain in my mouth, presumably to remind me what my out was. I just bit on it harder. He nudged my foot, like he would've kicked my legs apart if they weren't already tied down, and I felt something covered in latex pushing at me, wanting in.

“No choice,” he told me, and shoved inside. But it wasn’t him, not directly. He’d used the condom on the handle of the flogger he’d used on me, or maybe it was a different toy: slender but fairly long, penetrating me. Steady rhythm of thrusts, steady litany of him saying, “No choice, no choice, no choice, you have no choice.”

The words, his voice, low and steady…again, all good. Better than good. But oddly desperate for such a dispassionate top. Like telling me I had no choice hurt him, as the parental cliché has it, hurt him more than it did me.

After I came, he stopped. I stayed where I was. It wasn’t long before he came on my back, still muttering “no choice,” but now I felt like the words weren’t directed at me. I’m not sure he was talking to himself, either. He might have been talking to someone who wasn’t there or maybe to the universe itself. Maybe God.

Whoever or whatever he really was talking to, I’m pretty sure they or it had pissed him off mightily. I was glad it wasn’t me, because he sounded pretty broken up about it ( _no choice, no choice, no choice_ ) even when he was coming.

He cleaned me up, not just his come from my back, but a cool washcloth all over, cooling my skin, touching me so softly it was like he was kissing me with terrycloth. I closed my eyes while the tenderness of his wiping away the sweat took my breath away.

Then he gently pulled the chain from my teeth, freed my hands and feet, and placed a water bottle in one of my hands. He twisted the manufacturer's seal off the bottle even as he held it in my hand, so I could feel the integrity of the seal being broken, so I could tell it was a pure bottle.

“Did you get what you wanted? Do you need more from me?” he asked.

“No,” I said not ready to move from being draped, now pretty bonelessly, over the ottoman. “And thank you. It was exactly what I needed tonight.”

He came around, knelt so he could look me in the eye. “I’m glad I was able to oblige,” he said politely. He studied me for a long moment, curious. “You really wanted not to have a choice,” he said quietly, wonderingly. “You wanted that taken away from you.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Been making choices all day. Sick of it.”

He gave me another searching, puzzled look. “I’m sorry I couldn’t take away every single choice,” he said but he was clearly not sorry about that. Even if he had been…well, the house rules are that no one plays without a safeword, and members who don’t honor safewords are immediately ejected for life.

I put a shrug in my voice. “Them’s the rules,” I said.

“Indeed,” he agreed. He offered me his hand and I took so he could help me up. I would’ve preferred to just stay where I was for a little while, but I got the feeling he didn’t want to leave me there alone but that he also didn’t want to sit with me any longer than he had to. So I made the decision for him and we parted ways.

I haven’t seen him again since, but I think he’s been around. It was good, but I'm not terribly disappointed that our paths haven’t crossed again; whatever it was that was driving him that night ( _no choice, no choice, no choice_ )…well, I’m guessing it was pretty bad. And I've got enough problems of my own.


End file.
